


Thank The Maker

by mintfrosting



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cassandra as Gay, Eventual smut I promise!, F/F, Fantasizing, Femslash, Lesbian Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Trevelyan as a spoiled unskilled Templar, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-03-16
Packaged: 2019-03-28 22:00:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13913025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintfrosting/pseuds/mintfrosting
Summary: Overwhelmed by her attraction to Cassandra, the young Lady Trevelyan can only wish that the Seeker feels the same in any way. But something begins after Haven, when Cassandra carries her back to camp, cleans her armor, and gives her a kiss.





	1. Perhaps more

“Thank the Maker!”

Those are the last words that Evelyn Trevelyan can remember when she stirs from a dreamless sleep. Finally, she is safe at camp after the battle of her life. The scent of woodsmoke from the fire surrounds her, and a chill in the air whips through the pines, stealing heat from her skin. Her body is weak, and her head is heavy as well as her heart. Haven is lost. But Cassandra’s exclamation still echoes through her mind, drifting her thoughts away from this moment.

Evelyn can vaguely remember being carried. Someone had taken her sword and shield, and then she was lifted out of the snow to be held in the Seeker’s strong, protective arms. Her heart begins to flutter in her chest, and her stomach tightens with nervous excitement. Carried to camp by Cassandra herself… Did that really happen?

Cassandra, the Right Hand, with her powerful manner and striking features, her righteous devotion and fierce determination, and her deep, thickly accented voice, like sweet dripping syrup... The Seeker, the warrior, with a great big sword that rests at her swell of swaying hips, with slender wrists in heavy gauntlets, soulful eyes and tender lips… Nevarran and angry and sexy and holy...

Evelyn is drawn to her so strongly she can hardly stand it.

Then the memory comes back to her, and she’s overwhelmed by a rush of emotion.

Cassandra was here with her, knelt at this very spot.

“What are you doing?” Evelyn had asked, half unconscious.

Cassandra’s voice was strong and rich. “I am cleaning your armor,” she said, straightforward as ever. “Please, you must rest.”

Evelyn recalls the copper smell of all that blood. The Seeker took great care in wiping the mess from her breastplate, methodical and careful in her motions. Even when Evelyn tried to look up in her eyes, Cassandra’s focus did not waver from the cloth in her hand against steel.

The memory makes Evelyn’s heart begin to soar. She’s been dying to feel this warmth in her chest, the joy of being cared for by the woman she admires. Now her eyes drift shut as she envisions Cassandra leaning over her, giving her such personal and intimate attention. Cassandra must care for her... or at the very least, must care for her armor.

Then it comes back to her. Evelyn opens her eyes as though looking for clarity, and her core is all coiled up nerves. The touch of lips…

Yes, Cassandra had kissed her on the forehead, a gentle kiss that lingers even now. Maker, she can hardly believe it. Perhaps it meant nothing, a chaste sort of gesture like kissing a statue in the Chantry. Perhaps a fitting gesture for the Herald of Andraste.

Or perhaps more.

 

Herald of Andraste is a title that Evelyn willingly took to heart. The youngest of four, she was raised faithful, never stepped out of line, and was allowed to live her teenage years in privilege.

While her brother became a Templar and her sisters donned Chantry robes, Evelyn stayed at her parents’ estate. She practiced fencing and horseback riding, studied the Chant and recited its words before figures of Andraste in flames.

Everything she wanted was easily hers: rich sweets and embroidered clothing imported from Orlais, horses each with names and the finest riding equipment, scented oils for her baths drawn by servants, and smooth honey mead to share with her friends over parlour games and laughter.

It was during those games that she ended up kissing the girl who became her first love. A fellow noble, Anna was sweet, and daring at times. Though Evelyn had always admired the fairer sex, it was in her eighteenth year that she discovered how it felt to act on those feelings. The pair once rode their horses to a secret camp and spent the night together, declaring their devotion to each other.

But Anna took vows when she entered the ranks of the Chantry, and ended their relationship there. In hindsight, Evelyn had to wonder if she should have seen it coming.

Regardless, she was heartbroken.

That was when she begged to join the Order. Though it was unusual to begin formal training so late, the Trevelyans had many connections, and Evelyn was already well-read in history as well as Chantry teachings. With an empty heart and a need to seek purpose, the skills of meditation and focus came to her naturally.

She took her first lyrium at the age of nineteen.

 

Bound for the Conclave at age twenty-three, her shining armor still felt more symbolic than practical, and her sword skills were not among the strongest. Her shield felt too heavy, as it had while standing guard in the light of stained-glass windows for hours on end.

When the war began, Evelyn had retreated back to the safety of her parents’ estate.

But fighting for the Inquisition-- in the name of Andraste, for the late Divine, and for _Cassandra_ \-- had renewed her motivation like never before.

Now here at camp, where she’s tired but giddy at the thought of Cassandra’s kiss, Evelyn’s mind returns to the beginning.

She recalls the way Cassandra slammed the writ against the table, declaring the Inquisition reborn and sending a bolt of excitement straight through her core. Gripped by desire, Evelyn couldn’t help but think, _you can slam me down against the table next._ And she hated herself for becoming so distracted, but every time Cassandra spoke she was so spellbound by admiration she could hardly think.

Then there was the honor of taking Cassandra’s outstretched hand, sealing their trust, and watching as a smile tugged at the Seeker’s lips. Evelyn longs to see that smile again.

In truth, she has always felt some guilt over her own life of luxury, and to find out that Cassandra was in fact royalty but eschewed that life… it grew the deep respect in Evelyn’s heart.

It seems Cassandra is everything she wants, and wants to be. Evelyn craves her approval. She wants Cassandra to like her, at the least, and maybe admire her a bit, if she’s lucky. Desire her, perhaps, if she might be so blessed…

Evelyn has tried to forget. She has tried to banish the flame of desire from her heart, and pretend that Cassandra doesn’t affect her so. But they fight side by side, all lashing swords and battle cries, and the blood runs hot in Evelyn’s veins. Adrenaline consumes her and fills her head with fantasies of passionate love-making underneath the stars. She imagines being kissed, really kissed, and being whispered to sweetly with Cassandra’s well-trained body weighing on top of her…

Maker forgive her, it’s impossible to forget this desire.

 

Little does she know, Cassandra harbors secrets all too similar.

The Seeker is upright and respectful and wouldn’t dream of crossing any lines without explicit permission, but her heart has grown a fondness for the young Lady Herald at a remarkable speed.

Even as a prisoner, Cassandra couldn’t help but notice Trevelyan’s simple beauty-- her smooth glowing skin behind the swipes of dust and dirt, her expressive and elegant almond-shaped eyes, pretty pink lips and deep auburn hair-- cropped longer than her own but still short. A fetching but still very practical manner, in Cassandra’s opinion.

Since the beginning, Trevelyan has always been willing to obey whatever Cassandra asks of her. Her devotion is strong. And though she may not yet be terribly well skilled, she’s an eager participant in combat by the Seeker’s side.

All at once, Cassandra has gained such trust and admiration for the young noble girl-- young woman, she should say, or Templar perhaps, but she has to presume that Trevelyan is at least ten years her junior. Perhaps another reason not to act on her attraction.

But oh, she will act, in protection and reverence-- honoring, shielding and guiding her dear Lady Herald in whatever way she can.

While Evelyn wishes so deeply for Cassandra’s admiration, in truth, the Seeker has been pondering exactly how to show it.

 

 

 

To be continued.... 


	2. A gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skipping forward to Skyhold and a moment together.

Evelyn’s heart nearly stops when she finds what awaits her inside her new quarters.

She’s been muttering the Chant as she walks up the stairs.

“Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I may be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval. Oh Maker--”

Oh Maker, indeed.

The Seeker stands there in her bedroom, facing out toward the balcony, bathed in a halo of light. She turns, and their eyes meet across the room.

“My Lady Herald.”

“I’m… sorry.” Evelyn feels the urge to bolt. “Josephine told me that these were my quarters.”

“She was not mistaken,” Cassandra answers, diplomatic and calm. “I apologize for entering without your permission.”

Evelyn’s thoughts interject-- _oh, Cassandra, you always have my permission to enter._

“I don’t mind,” she says aloud. “You’re always welcome here.”

Evelyn glances at the bed, so obvious and right there, and wonders if she shouldn’t have said that.

“You are too kind,” Cassandra answers with the hint of a smile on her lips-- and Evelyn feels blessed by Andraste herself. Then Cassandra abruptly changes topic. “I wondered if you might want something new to wear,” she says. “Something more fitting for your title.”

Evelyn raises her brow. “Did you have something in mind?”

Cassandra nods to a set of clothing folded at the foot of the bed. “Yes. It was mine, for more formal occasions,” she says. “We are similar in height, and I thought it may fit you.”

How thoughtful. “You’re giving me a gift?”

“If you like it.”

Evelyn goes to hold up the jacket, velvety black with a sash of silver silk.

“It’s lovely,” she says, truly happy. “Thank you.” She’s probably grinning like a fool.

“You should try it on,” Cassandra demands.

“You mean now?”

“Please.” She nods in affirmation.

So Evelyn obeys. Heart pounding, she reaches to start undoing fastenings down her shirt, and she can feel Cassandra’s eyes on her even as she pulls it off her shoulders. Thank the Maker she is wearing an undershirt, or the heat of her blushing might burn her to death. _Touch me with fire that I may be cleansed..._

She slips into a sleeve, but Cassandra interrupts.

“You should try the trousers first,” she says. “The fit is more particular.”

Evelyn cannot believe she’s about to undress even further in front of Cassandra. She’s dreamed of such things, but not exactly like this. It’s a little bit terrifying.

“Of course,” she replies, and tries not to stumble as she wriggles out of one pair of trousers and into another-- the black ones, in velvet, that must have been worn by Cassandra to at least one formal event. They fit just fine, though maybe a bit loose in the thighs, where Evelyn lacks some of Cassandra’s very womanly and muscled kind of width.

When Evelyn glances up, Cassandra is still watching her. Assessing the fit, no doubt, but more than that… Is she enjoying this!? Maker willing...

Evelyn is burning up with nerves. Hands trembling, she pulls on the jacket, but she has some trouble with just how to put it all together. So Cassandra steps in to help, pulling the belt nice and tight around her waist and deftly fixing fastenings. Evelyn tenses with excitement.

Then the strangest thing happens. Cassandra begins to smooth her hands down the front of Evelyn’s jacket, but then seems to suddenly realize that going any further would be groping her breasts-- and her hands withdraw. It’s so sudden, Evelyn hardly has a moment to think.

“Do you like it?” Cassandra asks, and can’t resist plucking a bit of lint from the shoulder. Her eyes are focused as her hand brushes dust from the fabric. No doubt Cassandra wants the Inquisitor to appear presentable, she’s the leader of their cause now, but it’s almost as though she can’t resist any chance to get physically close.

“I do,” the younger woman answers. “How does it look on me?”

Cassandra looks her up and down, and Evelyn is sure that her blush must be obvious. She imagines a response in which Cassandra pulls her closer by her hips and whispers hotly against her ear about just how badly she wants to get her out of this outfit and into that bed.

“It fits you well.”

Not quite the same, but it will do. 

“Thank you, Cassandra.”

She imagines still, just an arm around her waist, another kiss against her forehead. But even those are too much to wish for.

Cassandra simply nods, and leaves her there alone.

 

 

 

To be continued....


	3. Can't hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings won't stop. Also, Sera tries to help.

Cassandra holds tight to the banister outside the Inquisitor’s quarters.

All she can think is, _what are you doing?_ and more to the point, _you nearly groped her!_

But alas, then all Cassandra can think of is groping her. Maker have mercy, it’s incredibly inappropriate and absolutely not all right to imagine letting her hands go further. Pulling that belt undone again and slipping all the fastenings open... Sliding her hands under velvet to feel the soft, warm breasts of Andraste’s herald herself…

Cassandra sighs and attempts to let her thoughts disperse. Her head is spinning, and she feels unsteady on her feet. How could she let herself cause such an incident! Staring like a letch while the poor girl undressed and blushed bright pink…

How could she be so weak? Inquisitor Trevelyan should be honored, not defiled! Cassandra should hold fast to reverent admiration. Professional approval.

She hears a sudden _caw_ and looks up to see one of Leliana’s ravens watching her.

_What are you looking at?_

The Seeker makes a disgusted noise and takes off for the training yard.

 

Evelyn’s quarters feel far too large and full of empty space without Cassandra there beside her. The windows are beautiful, her bed looks very comfortable, and the desk is stocked with parchment and ink. The bookshelves are full, and the fire is warm.

But now she’s all alone. She hugs her arms around herself, and then tries to discern a scent from the fabric of her sleeve-- some hint of Cassandra. But it only smells of dust, like it’s been sitting in a closet. She focuses instead on the tactile memory of Cassandra’s hands stroking down her front and brushing firmly against her shoulder. The way Cassandra tugged the belt around her waist.

And the longing swells in her chest. She can’t escape it, can’t run and can’t hide.

Evelyn sits at her desk. With nowhere else to spill her feelings, she readies the materials to set pen to parchment.

A story begins to flow from her hand. It’s the story of a fierce Nevarran knight who is tasked with escorting a princess on a diplomatic journey, protecting her from harm in the dangerous wilds full of demons and apostates. The princess fights at her side, and they grow to admire each other greatly.

And then the knight and the princess fall into bed together. Safe for the night at a tavern where they’ve rented a room, the knight sees the princess undress and can hardly resist her. The women on the page confess their affection to each other, and they’re right in the middle of kissing when Evelyn decides that the whole thing is foolish.

She throws down her pen and rips the last page straight in two.

_It’s not real. It will never be real._

But her feelings are real.

And she still can’t hide.

 

Evelyn finds herself standing in the sunlight outside the tavern to watch Cassandra train. Clad in her formal wear, she’s not exactly dressed to join in, and can only hope it’s not too glaringly obvious why she’s standing there.

“You enjoying the show, Lady Herald?”

She startles half to death at the sound of Sera’s voice. The two have begun an uneasy sort of friendship, but if nothing else they have gained each other’s respect.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Evelyn responds.

“No, I get it. She’s fit, right? Not my type, but maybe yours? _You_ think it looks like you’re out here to get better with a sword, but you like her. Don’t you.”

Sera always has a way of going on a little too far beyond Evelyn’s train of thought.

“Well, I… that is…”

“Fine, you’re watching her skills, then. Getting tips, ah? But really…” Sera makes a rude gesture. “Sword in sheath.”

Evelyn gapes in astonishment and quickly grabs Sera by the arm to pull her back around the corner of the tavern.

“Don’t do that,” she says.

“It’s true though.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea.”

“Its obvious. Don’t worry, just to me. None of these lot know what I’m on about.”

Now Evelyn wonders if perhaps she can hide after all.

“Come on,” she says, asking Sera to follow her inside the tavern. “I need a drink.”

 

They settle in at a table on the empty third floor.

“I think she likes you too,” Sera tells her over her tankard of ale, and Evelyn’s of mead.

“Hah.” Evelyn shakes her head assuredly _no._

“Are you kidding? She loves you.” Sera laughs and swigs her ale. “You know she _carried_ you? Back when they found you in the snow?”

Evelyn’s eyes go wide, but she nods in affirmation. “Yes... I remember.” She gulps some mead and tries not to think on it too much.

“Then she cleaned you up. She was knelt there for ages like nothing else mattered.” Then Sera puts on a hilarious rendition of Cassandra’s voice. “I must attend to the Herald,” she quotes. “Leave my dinner. All of you leave me!”

Evelyn laughs. “She didn’t say that.”

“She did! Refused to eat with us. Said something about the importance of caring for the metal. Got to prevent the rust. Got to go and _stare_ at you, more like.”

Evelyn falls silent, and there’s a stillness in her chest as she considers that story. Mead… more mead. It’s sweet down her throat.

Sera breaks the silence. “Yeah, she’s fooling herself,” she says. “The Seeker, she’s… well I’m not sure if she knows it. How much she likes you. But you like her, right?” Sera chuckles and gestures with her tankard. “You should tell her!”

“No… I can’t.”

Sera sets down her tankard. “Well someone has to do it.”

“Sera.” Evelyn glares at her in warning.

“Don’t worry, I won’t butt in!” Sera gives her a dry smile. “But good luck, yeah? I think you’ll need it.”

“I’m _not_ going to tell her.”

Sera shrugs. “Suit yourself, Lady Herald. But if you’re waiting for _her_ to make a move, you’ll have to settle in and wait.”

Evelyn sighs. “Noted,” she says. “I suppose I’m not so bad at waiting.”

 

 

 

To be continued....


	4. What guides you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life continues at Skyhold, Cassandra remembers an offer, and Evelyn gets a shock.

Evelyn wakes to the sight of sunlight streaming through the room. She feels certain that something is wrong.

Searching her mind, she remembers a dream in a dark and terrible place full of glowing red lyrium. Cassandra was there behind sturdy iron bars, reciting verses of the Chant with unwavering conviction. And Sera was there too, terrified, trapped. Evelyn reminds herself that it isn’t real, that now they are safe. But the threat of that future haunts her sleep.

Weary, she gets up to prepare the day’s dose of lyrium. The thought of mornings back in Ostwick makes her dreadfully homesick. She used to wake up to a tray of fresh bread and fruit, butter and honey, and her lyrium ready to take. She would lounge in her dressing gown, sipping hot tea prepared with cream and sugar, and take her time to ponder a day without troubles.

Everything is so different now.

Evelyn finds that the kitchens have bread and some fruit, but no honey and no cream. She sits there in a quiet corner sipping tea with sugar, pondering a day full of more troubles than she has ever known before.

Her breakfast is interrupted by a plea for her forgiveness, as a notice from Ambassador Montilyet was apparently overlooked in the hurry to establish the kitchens. There’s a promise to deliver her breakfast from now on, and Evelyn is truly grateful.

 

Josephine stops her on sight.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan-- Did you eat breakfast? Please tell me they had it delivered. Oh, this place is a disaster!”

“Don’t worry, Josephine. I’ve eaten. They did receive your notice.”

Josephine sighs in relief. “Thank goodness,” she says. “Your Worship, please let me know if there is anything else I can provide to help you feel more at home.”

Evelyn considers the taste of butter and honey and cream. They seem almost frivolous now.

“I’ve been sleeping in tents for days,” she says. “I’m happy to have a roof over my head.”

Josephine smiles gently. “I envy your humility.”

Truly, it’s grown in spades throughout this experience.

“Although,” says Evelyn. “Parchment, if you’ve any to spare.”

“Of course,” says Josephine. “I will have it delivered to your quarters.”

 

Evelyn is startled to find Cassandra alone in the war room.

“Planning troop movements now?”

The conversation that follows is a glorious blur of nearly everything Evelyn has wished for. Cassandra looks softer and rather like a goddess in the brightness of daylight, leaned against the window frame with stars in her eyes.

When the Seeker says, “I wish I had your confidence,” it seems like a joke.

And Evelyn is half joking when she replies. “You almost sound like you admire me.”

“I absolutely do.”

The words keep repeating in Evelyn’s head.

Not just, “yes,” not just “I do,” but _”I absolutely do.”_

How can this be? She’s just some girl from Ostwick, just a failed Templar with the heart of a coward and nothing to guide her but the needs of the moment. When Cassandra had asked, _“what guides you?”_ the first answer that sprung to mind was _”you, Cassandra. It’s always been you. I do what I hope will gain your approval.”_

The Seeker’s ideals are so beautiful and righteous. (Certainly not the ravings of a heretic.)

But Evelyn can’t admit her truth. It’s all she can do not to stumble over her words while she comes up with an answer.

And then… there’s more.

“Think of it. Like Andraste long ago, once again the fate of Thedas will be determined by a woman.”

 _Do you like that I’m a woman?_ Evelyn has to wonder. But before she can even think, Cassandra smiles such a glorious smile.

“It makes me proud to know you,” she says.

Oh sweet Maker, what a lot to take in. Evelyn can’t even add something helpful. All she can say is, “I appreciate that.” Like a fool.

Truly, she appreciates that conversation far more than the Seeker could know.

Evelyn stands feeling dazed beside that window, staring out at the rustling of golden leaves for a long time after Cassandra has left the room. The warmth in her heart is nearly too much to bear, while anxiety clenches at the pit of her stomach. It’s a terribly exciting yet truly unnerving experience.

The Inquisitor can hardly keep her focus when her advisors arrive. She doesn’t understand either side of the sudden bout of bickering between Leliana and Cullen, and dreads the moment when they’ll ask for her official and definitive command.

But dear, blessed Josephine steps in with a diplomatic compromise, and Evelyn voices her agreement with that.

Yes, she believes that she was chosen by Andraste, that her faith was rewarded-- but the journey ahead is incredibly daunting. Regardless… Cassandra commends her just for making decisions, and _that_ she can do.

Maybe if she smiles and nods for long enough, she might become a leader deserving of her title.

 

Rumors of Varric’s visitor have spread.

Cassandra, for one, does not wish to be involved in the arrival of the Champion. The very thought of that lying little dwarf bringing Hawke here to Skyhold makes her blood boil.

 _Liar!_ She slashes at the training dummy.

 _Snake!_ A jab of her sword, sudden and rough.

If only the Champion could have been here sooner…

Cassandra sheathes her sword with a hard-won sigh and wipes sweat from her brow. She needs a distraction, but the loft with her bedroll and stack of worn books is hardly appealing.

Trevelyan’s words come back to her. _“You’re always welcome here.”_

Did she truly mean that? Surely she would not make such an offer in jest...

So Cassandra makes her way up the stairs to the main hall. There must be some exciting tale among the shelves of books in the Inquisitor’s quarters, waiting to occupy her mind on that comfortable bed.

 

A stack of parchment fastened with twine sits waiting for Evelyn on the landing outside her quarters. The word is that Hawke will arrive in the afternoon. So Evelyn takes the delivery under an arm and makes her way up the stairs, pondering what to include in a letter to be sent back home.

She turns the corner into her quarters to find none other than Cassandra lounging on her bed, stripped down to her trousers and sleeveless undershirt.

“Maker’s breath.”

Cassandra looks up from what she’s reading. “Oh!” she says, clearly startled. “Inquisitor.”

“I… Please, you don’t have to call me that.”

“What should I call you?” Cassandra asks.

Evelyn stares, overwhelmed by the sight of the Seeker out of her armor. Her bare arms look gorgeous and firm, her breasts soft and full. The younger woman tries to catch her breath and replies, “Evelyn.” She hangs onto the banister, heart pounding, but something gives her the courage to stay. After all, this is her own room. “What are you reading?” she asks.

Cassandra fiddles with the pages on her lap. Not a bound book, but pages. How strange.

“This… these are… reports.” She’s clearly agitated, and color is swiped across her cheeks.

“Is there something concerning?” Evelyn asks.

Cassandra stares back with wide eyes. She seems to be searching for an answer.

“Or can’t you tell me?”

“I lied,” Cassandra suddenly admits. “I found this on your desk.”

Evelyn is struck by that admission. Thank the Maker she is still holding steady to the banister.

“Oh,” she replies. Her story. The one about the knight and the princess who fight side by side and rent a room at a tavern…

“I have questions,” says Cassandra.

Oh no.

Evelyn can’t put any thoughts into words. Oh, Maker! She had made the knight Nevarran!

“Will you answer them?” Cassandra asks. Her voice is rather breathless, and the curiosity is written all over her face.

Evelyn cannot believe this is happening. “I’ll try,” she replies. She would go and take a seat on the edge of the bed, but it seems more wise to keep her distance at the moment.

“The knight,” says Cassandra. “Is she a Templar?”

Not exactly the sort of question Evelyn had expected.

“No,” she answers. “I don’t think so.”

“I see,” Cassandra responds. “And the princess, where is she from?”

“Um... Antiva?”

_The princess is from Ostwick, Cassandra. The princess is me!_

“Hmm.” Cassandra nods thoughtfully. “I would not have guessed.” Then she goes on with the most surprising question. “Why did you stop writing?”

Has Cassandra read it all? Evelyn can’t even remember how much was saved. The ripped up last page had been thrown in the fire, but the page before that… Blighted thing, nearly all of the pages were full of desire between two women. Shit!

“I don’t know,” Evelyn answers. She’s so hot in the face. Oh, Andraste’s fucking tits.

But then Cassandra tells her, “I must know what happens next.”

“Then… you liked it?” says Evelyn.

“Oh, it’s so romantic,” says Cassandra. “The passion, the longing. They admire each other so. Won’t they simply tell each other? Won’t they be together?”

Evelyn can’t believe this absolute deluge of interest. She stands there incredulous at the hopeful look on Cassandra’s face. Is Cassandra so oblivious to the story’s true meaning? Who it’s truly about? Or does she somehow… feel the same?

Oh, Maker willing.

Perhaps Cassandra is only being cautious… trying not to cross any lines without permission.

Perhaps this could be the perfect way to give her that permission.

“I will have to write it,” Evelyn responds.

“Yes,” Cassandra agrees. “I can hardly wait.”

 

 

 

To be continued....


End file.
